by Various
“I may be a dog, but I can tell the difference between a kid who smells like peanut butter and one who smells like Duco cement.” Benjamin had taken a recent interest in Renwal kits of aircraft carriers.
“Oh-kaaaay,” said Sasha. Now she realized that she had another, even more difficult, concept to accept. A talking dog, okay. She could accept a talking dog. But could she accept a talking dog that could read her mind?
“Are you going to stumble over every new idea, or are you going to get cracking and save Roland before it’s too late?” Mr. Chesterton said impatiently. “You’ve got about three hours, while the elves are amusing themselves by draining the blood from the neighbors’ kittens. After that, it may be too late for all of you. And Roland is the key. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have sent him up the Winter Tree.”
He hopped down from Sasha’s lap and went to the box where she kept all her doll clothing, everything that wasn’t currently being worn by one or another of her dolls. In a kind of fury, he rifled through them, briefly holding up items of dress and impatiently flinging them away.
“Baby clothes!” he growled. “What am I supposed to do with baby clothes? Don’t you have any grown-up dolls? One with a bit of masculine sartorial flair, perhaps?”
“Well, there’s this,” Sasha said doubtfully. She pulled Benjamin’s Halloween costume out of a box on the closet floor. He’d gone as Mr. Bojangles, the famous tap dancer. “A costume? Am I a mountebank, then, to be clad in entertainer’s motley?” But Mr. Chesterton tried on the checked trousers, and they fit to his irritated satisfaction. The green vest, he conceded, suited him rather well. And the homburg, once he donned it, didn’t look at all as tawdry as it had in the box. “It’s not the clothes,” he said, surveying himself in the mirror. “It’s how one carries oneself.” Then, on all fours, he bounded out of the room and down the stairs.
Sasha followed.
“Hand me down the glass cane on the mantelpiece,” Mr. Chesterton said. “The one your mother never lets you handle.”
Stretching up on her tiptoes, Sasha did as she was told. Once Mr. Chesterton had the cane in his paw, he got up on his hind legs. Standing thus, he was even taller than was Sasha herself. Dressed as he was, and holding the cane in such a dapper manner, he looked almost human.
A bell clanged directly outside the house.
“Ah,” Mr. Chesterton said. “Right on time.”
He opened the front door.
A gleaming black locomotive with bright brass trim waited at the curb, on tracks that had never been there before, white smoke puffing impatiently into the night from its stack. Behind it was a short train of three wood-sided passenger cars, one sleeper, and a dining car, all painted green-and-gold, and a bright red caboose. From the platform of the caboose, the brakeman swung his lantern, urging them toward the front-most car. The conductor leaned down to help them aboard. “’Evening,” he said. “How far are you folks going?” He did not so much as blink at Mr. Chesterton’s appearance. For him, apparently, an elegantly dressed dog walking on his hind legs was an everyday occurrence.
“All the way,” Mr. Chesterton said. He gestured brusquely toward the horizon, where a vast, star-flecked shadow dominated the sky. It took Sasha a moment to realize that the shadow was a tree, larger than anything this side of the moon, and that what looked like stars were actually ornaments. “Right straight to the top.” He handed the conductor a pair of pasteboard tickets.
“Right-oh, sir!” The conductor briskly punched the tickets, led them to the sleeping car and opened a compartment door. Then he saluted snappily, spun on his heel, and was gone. With a jerk, the train started forward.
The car was empty save for the two of them. Sasha stared out the window at the passing town with its neat houses like cunningly-detailed toys, each with a tidy yard no larger than a handkerchief and trees so small she could have picked them up with her hand and stuck them in a pocket. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“To see the Big Guy,” Mr. Chesterton said. “The lord of all things, who lives in the sky.”
“Do you mean… God?”
“Don’t call him that,” Mr. Chesterton snapped. “He’s nothing of the sort–though he’d like you to believe he is.”
And that was all he would say.
For a time they watched the passing land in silence. The town fell behind them and the tracks slanted gently upward. Evidently they were starting the long spiral up the tree and into the sky.
Then Mr. Chesterton yawned and stood. “I’m going off to get myself a beer,” he said. “Don’t wait up for me.”
He disappeared down the corridor. Leaving Sasha alone with her thoughts, to fret and worry.
Not long after, a tall and distinguished-looking man in a Pullman porter uniform knocked on the compartment door. “Good evening, young miss. I’m just here to make up the beds,” he said, and deftly set to work, popping down the upper berth from the ceiling and folding back the seats, fastening curtains, attaching the headboard. In less time than it took to tell, he’d added sheets, pillows, and blankets. “There!” he said, smiling. “All done.”
Sasha sat down on the lower berth. “Thank you.”
The porter’s face grew serious. “You look unhappy, little missy. Is there a problem?”
“No… yes… I don’t know.”
“Well then, why don’t you tell me all about it?” He stood listening with such patient sympathy that in no time at all Sasha found herself pouring out her heart to him. She told him everything she knew.
“Hmmm,” the porter said when she was done. “Well, you are in a pickle, young lady, and no doubt about that. However, others have been in worse situations and turned out well. You need only consider Moses or Temudjin, both of whom overcame early setbacks to become highly regarded gentlemen. For that matter, Harriet Tubman was born a slave, and rescued not only herself but many neighbors and family members from that unspeakable condition. You’re a bright young lady, and not hincty. Not a bit hincty, nossir. So with a little perseverance, you could well redeem your brother. Despite the company you keep.”
“Mr. Chesterton? He’s a good dog!”
“Mr. Chesterton, as he chooses to call himself, is a bit of rascal,” the porter said sternly, “and I fear he’s not as reliable as he ought to be. But his heart is sound, so long as he stays away from…certain substances. Trust him, but keep him on a short leash.”
Then the Pullman porter leaned down and in a voice so low it was almost a whisper said, “My name is William, but they call me Big Bill. If you find yourself at the station up above without a ticket home, just tell any porter that Big Bill said you were a special friend. We are a Brotherhood and, though we are only human, we will do what we can to see you home safe.”
Then he smiled again. “Meanwhile, you should take your mind off your troubles with a little light entertainment.” From a compartment Sasha had not noticed before, he withdrew a stack of comic books. “I keep these for situations like this. You may take them with you, but don’t tell anybody where you got them.”
Sasha was enormously touched. “You’re very nice to me,” she said.
The porter winked conspiratorially. “Well, we colored folk have got to stick together, don’t we, young miss? Whatever our station is on life’s railroad.”
Then, with a punctilious bow, he was gone.
The comic books he left behind were filled with bright drawings and exciting stories. There was Baron Munchausen at the End of Time and Deros of Broadway and Isaac Newton, Robot Fighter and Yaa Asantewaa Warrior Queen Versus the Demons of Entropy. There were even three issues of The Adventures of Mr. Chesterton, and those were the best of all. In them, Mr. Chesterton was always fighting evil elves. Sometimes they got the upper hand, because he was too easily distracted by a stogie, a glass of whiskey, or a chew toy. But always he managed to save the day, chasing off the pasty-skinned, pointy-eared villains with a growl and disposing of their leader with a sharp thump on the head with his walking
stick. In one, he even battled Morningstar the Living Sun, a being which could destroy entire planets with a single casual solar flare, and yet Mr. Chesterton triumphed over it with his usual swagger. There was no enemy, it seemed, he could not defeat.
Sasha wasn’t supposed to read comic books, because they were trash, but these ones made her feel powerful and safe and protected. She knew they were only stories, but she was glad that the porter had given them to her, although she hoped she would never need to ask him or his friends for a free ride home. She had been brought up to pay for whatever she received. Her parents would not like her accepting charity.
Some hours later, Mr. Chesterton came lurching unsteadily into their compartment, reeking of beer and tobacco. Sasha was lying in her berth, reading, when he came in.
“What’s this?” he demanded when he saw the comics and snatched one up from the top of the pile. “Don’t tell me you’re reading–” Then he saw his name and image on the cover. “Hmph! Well! Not exactly Horace Walpole, is it? Still, it can do you no harm, and it might conceivably do some good. Sometimes there’s useful information hidden in such pulp extravaganzas, like raisins in a cinnamon bun. Read on, child–read on!”
And, looking pleased, he climbed into his own berth, turned in a circle three times round, and curled up atop the blankets.
In the morning–but Sasha had to take Mr. Chesterton on his word that it was morning, for the sky outside was still midnight-black and spangled with stars–they arrived at their destination.
The station at the top of the tree was shaped like a star, with bright spikes in every direction. As they came toward it, it grew and grew until it filled the sky and then the train looked like it was going to crash right into the wall but instead rumbled into a tunnel entrance that had been invisible when the station first appeared. For an instant the train was enveloped in light. Then darkness swallowed it up.
When the train pulled into the station and Sasha tried to stand, to her amazement she bobbed up into the air. Mr. Chesterton pulled her down. “Mind your skirts,” he growled. “Keep them wrapped about your ankles, or at least your knees, at all times. You don’t want to give a bad impression.”
“But I’m… I’m…flying!”
“What did you expect? Gravity doesn’t affect us here. But be careful! You’ve still got all the mass you came in with, and you’ll find that momentum is a powerful force when it’s the only one operating on you.”
Sasha had no idea what Mr. Chesterton was talking about. But under his tutelage, she quickly learned how to move gracefully. She need simply tuck up her legs while floating alongside a wall or pillar and then kick out against that solid surface. This made her fly through the air at a comfortable and steady rate. When, floating down one of the vast radial corridors of the station, they came to an intersection, Mr. Chesterton would take her by the arm and then, snagging a pole at the intersection’s very center with his glass cane, swing them around and release them so that they were flying with undiminished speed down a new corridor. It was a delightful sensation, like playing crack-the-whip.
Finally, they found themselves speeding down a long white empty corridor like the inside of a rifle barrel. “Where are we going to?” Sasha asked.
“Tesseract House.” Mr. Chesterton pointed straight ahead of them at a black circle where the corridor ended. There might have been a faint speck of light in its center. “We have to cross miles of vacuum to get to it, but so long as you hold your breath and don’t show the yellow feather, all will be well.” Solemnly, he added, “This is your first test. If you want to be a hero, you must pass them all.”
“But I don’t want to be–”
“Take a deep breath! Don’t let it out!”
Sasha did as she was told, and then glass doors flew open before them and they sailed out into space.
It was so cold that Sasha’s face stung and the tears that welled up involuntarily from her eyes froze on her cheeks. She held her breath, though the air within her lungs seemed like a living thing, eager to escape from her. But Mr. Chesterton flew alongside Sasha, holding her hand firmly, and the warmth of his paw lent her strength.
Outer space was not only cold but eerily silent. But when she turned toward Mr. Chesterton, he nodded reassuringly, as if to say, “There, there, old girl. Well done!” He never opened his mouth.
The voyage seemed to take forever–far longer, Sasha was absolutely sure, than she’d ever been able to hold her breath before. Finally, however, a dim spark directly ahead of them, seemingly one minor star in a myriad, brightened and grew and became a house. Mr. Chesterton nodded at it in a way that indicated that it was their destination. Tesseract House looked like five houses all crammed together so that there were roofs pointing in every direction, even down. Sasha had just enough time to suppose that they came in handy here, where it was weightless and you could never know from which direction the rain might come, when the house swelled up to encompass the universe and she was standing on its threshold.
Mr. Chesterton opened the door and ushered Sasha in. When they were both inside, he said, “You can stop holding your breath now.”
All the air in Sasha’s lungs whooshed out of her, and she gasped for more. It was warm here, and they stood on the floor as if everything were normal. Her knees felt weak and wobbly, but she was grateful the trip was over and done with.
They stood within a vast marble foyer that would not have looked out of place in a bank. Vases of albino roses rested on alabaster sconces and milk-glass chandeliers hung down from a whitewashed ceiling. At the far side of the foyer stood a big bald white man wearing wire rim glasses and a snow-white three-piece suit. He turned his head, and Sasha could see that one side of his mouth curled up in a permanent sneer.
Mr. Chesterton looked grim. “Snow,” he said.
“That’s Lord Snow to you, Mr. Chesterton. You’re still a dog, I see.”
“It is an honest trade, sir. Unlike some I could mention.”
“Let us dispense with the neckties and the niceties, Chesterton,” the bald man said. “Who’s the brat?”
“This is my ward, Sasha,” said Mr. Chesterton. “Sasha, say hello to Lord Snow. Don’t get too close!” He gave Lord Snow a fierce look. “She is under my protection, sir,” he said.
Sasha curtsied, as she had been taught, and tried to say, “How do you do, Lord Snow.” But no sounds came out of her mouth.
“Cat got your tongue, my dear?” asked Lord Snow.
The hair on the back of Mr. Chesterton’s head stood up. He growled far in the back of his throat and his ears pricked forward. “I said, she’s under my protection.”
“H-h-h-how d-d-d-do y-y-you d-d-do?” said Sasha. She was annoyed at the stutter in her voice. “How do you do, Lord Snow,” she said again, forcefully. She did not curtsey this time.
The left corner of Lord Snow’s mouth went up as if he were smiling, but the right half remained straight and grim. Which side was the real Lord Snow? Sasha did not think she liked either of them very much.
“We are here for the child,” said Mr. Chesterton. “Roland.”
“Of course you are,” said Lord Snow. “He’s in my kennels. This way.” He turned on his heel and ostentatiously strode away.
“Come, dear heart,” said Mr. Chesterton. “We’ll dispose of this matter quickly, and then find ourselves someplace where we can get you a bite to eat.”
“Oh, certainly someone will get a bite,” Lord Snow said over his shoulder, “and someone else will get bitten. But who will be the diner and who the dinner, eh?” And he chuckled, as if he had just told rather a good joke.
Without comment, Mr. Chesterton accompanied Sasha down a long white marble corridor. It ought to have given the impression of purity and grace, but somehow it rankled. It gave off a smell-less stink, it rang with inaudible alarm bells. And the further she went down the corridor, the stronger Sasha’s reaction was to something she couldn’t sense.
“Mr. Ches—” she began. She glanc
ed over at him and the words stuck in her mouth. His hackles were raised, his ears were back flat against his skull, and his lips were lifted away from his teeth in a silent and vicious snarl.
“Keep moving, my dear,” said Mr. Chesterton, between his teeth. “You are under my protection, and protect you I shall. But you must forgive my fierce demeanor–for I am under the protection of no one at all.”
Lord Snow opened a doorway at the end of the passage with a flourish. “Allow me to show you my collection,” he said, and passed within.
Perforce they followed. Mr. Chesterton went first and Sasha after.
As she passed through the doorway, however, Sasha felt a sudden flash of heat pass through her flesh. She reached down to steady herself against the doorknob and saw that her hand was no longer her own. It was the hand of an adult woman. Her nails were long and tapered and as red as blood. There was a slim gold watch on her wrist, and rings on her fingers. Suddenly she realized how tall she was–tall enough that her head almost brushed against the top of the doorframe–and how far below her was Mr. Chesterton. Her arms were very long. Her body was…
…her own again. Short. Small. A child’s.
Sasha must have made a noise, for Lord Snow said, “Stop that whining. If what you see bothers you, then perhaps we should just pluck out your eyes.”
“Be brave, child,” Mr. Chesterton murmured. “Look about you–can you see Roland?”
“I can’t see a thing. It’s too dark.”
“More of your tricks, Snow? Oh, this is unworthy of you!”
Disdainfully, Lord Snow snapped his fingers. Light flared, briefly blinding Sasha. She stood blinking until she could see again.
They were in a room larger than a railway station, with walls that curled up on either side to meet overhead in a barrel vault. The walls were lined with cages the size of large suitcases, one after the other and stacked all the way to the ceiling. When the light came on, mews and shouts and yelps arose from up and down their length, and paws and small hands were squeezed through the bars imploringly.